


A Quietly Tremendous Thing

by asuralucier



Category: A Room With a View - All Media Types
Genre: Background Lucy/George, Beethoven, But mostly in keeping with the book, Funny Canon Timeline, Home and Abroad, M/M, Pining after a fashion, Shakespeare, Sibling Relationship, Tennis, Thank Goodness for George, The Education of Freddy Honeychurch, Wayback Exchange 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-08 19:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18629542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: The one where Freddy Honeychurch reads Shakespeare to appease Cecil Vyse. (And George ships it.)





	A Quietly Tremendous Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reine_des_corbeaux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/gifts).



> I would have never thought to ship this. But like. I reread the book and now I kind of do. This ended up more like a character study than anything with real plot. I hope you enjoy it anyway! 
> 
> Note: the “funny canon” tag just means that I've fudged with the timeline to play around with events that transpire after Lucy and the Emersons descend once again upon Surrey.

**Meeting Cecil**

The first time Cecil Vyse called around Windy Corner to invite Lucy on a walk, it was Freddy who who met him at the door, looking cross and handsome in his tennis whites, “Lucy said she would hit with me.” 

“Well, Freddy, Lucy can hit with you when she returns,” said his mother, Mrs. Honeychurch, a touch irritated, but it did not show too much on her person. Freddy, who knew his mother’s habits more immediately than Cecil, the unsuspecting outsider, picked up on some of her displeasure, but only some. Mrs. Honeychurch’s _modus operandi_ was also obliging politeness, further obscuring the state of things. Mrs Honeychurch wanted to impressed Cecil, who was wearing a coat that looked imported and Italian. Naturally, it was implied that he through this immaculate choice of dress, was a man who was of worth. Namely, worthy of Lucy, belle of the ball. 

(Even if Lucy had never been to a ball in her lifetime. Being able to keep track of a mean split step during a singles game and all manners of notes during a Beethoven Sonata did not mean that she’d be any good at dancing. Of that Freddy was nearly certain.)

“Just a tick, Mother, I’ve forgotten my hat.” Lucy’s voice floated towards the door from somewhere in the house and Freddy appraised the voice, deciding it sounded less like his sister, whom he’d known all his life and more like a woman. 

When she finally emerged, Freddy glanced at her, “...What’s that on your head, a pineapple?” 

“Freddy!” Mrs. Honeychurch cried, this time her voice pitched towards things other than obliging politeness. “Lucy’s hat is the latest fashion! From Florence! Oh, Lu, do make sure you talk to Mr. Vyse about your holiday.” 

“Well,” said Cecil Vyse, proffering his arm to Lucy, “That hat makes you look tremendous, Lucy.” 

And off they went. Freddy sulked unmoving against the doorway of Windy Corner for a moment longer than was polite and went upstairs to change.

**Lucy’s Opinions About Cecil**

Lucy was a young woman with many opinions. As it happened, none of her opinions were particularly shapely, so when there were others about, Lucy was rarely allowed to speak by the grace of Mrs. Honeychurch’s warning glare. However, when she did, she found Freddy a rapt audience of one. They sat shoulder to shoulder at Lucy’s piano. 

“You know, Friedrich,” said Lucy. Friedrich was not Freddy’s real name, “Mr. Vyse is most _curious_. He wants to marry me.” 

“After only a dozen walks?” Upon reflection, Freddy supposed it wasn’t that odd. Cecil Vyse was older than both himself and Lucy and maybe he was used to making decisions. Once a man became a man, perhaps he became too, aware of how fast time passed, even in the early days of a young summer in Surrey. 

“For what it’s worth, I haven’t made up my mind,” Lucy said. “Somehow, it’s not quite, what I imagined. He doesn’t like tennis.” 

“Well, then say no,” said Freddy. “If you can’t say yes, you have to say no, Lu. You can’t marry someone halfway. Imagine. I’m married to you, Cecil, but only on even days of the week.” 

**Drinking Tea with Cecil**

To Freddy’s chagrin, his sister didn’t tell Cecil Vyse yes or no before she went off on a jaunt to Italy. This caused belated problems for Freddy, when Cecil would drop by unannounced for a cup of tea. But then, he grew to expect the man on Thursdays and the occasional Monday, during the afternoons, when his mother was out calling on friends for her own cup of tea and her share of gossip. He (Cecil) was also trying to get Freddy to read more, mostly Shakespeare, which Freddy disliked. 

Aside for Cecil’s entanglement with Lucy (Freddy shook his brain for a word, and couldn’t come up with better), there were other things about Cecil. Mrs. Honeychurch had had a go at the son and heir of the house (“that language is _beastly_ ,”) so now Freddy only thought it in his head. The more he thought about it, the more it made his head hurt and it seemed to Freddy that all of Shakespeare was a warning against matrimony (attempted or otherwise). 

“No wonder Lucy doesn’t want to marry you,” Freddy said. He was halfway through _Hamlet_ , and duly unimpressed. 

“Beg pardon?” Cecil widened his eyes. This seemed to surprise him, and Freddy thinks privately that this oughtn’t have to been the case, but Lucy still hadn’t told him yes or no. For a man who professed to read a lot, it was almost laughable that someone as well-read Cecil couldn’t manage to glean that between the lines. 

“I said,” Freddy weighed his words on his tongue and chose not to repeat himself; it was rare that he would adhere to such restraint and hoped that Cecil knew what it meant. But Freddy didn’t know quite what it meant either, this restraint. Perhaps he just wanted to impress Cecil in the way that Lucy had never wanted to. “I don’t understand why you’d want to get married in the first place anyhow, If Shakespeare is to be believed, it’s the most awful of endeavors.” 

Cecil Vyse twirled his moustache, the way he sometimes did. It was a gesture that Freddy thought Lucy would have found funny, but she wasn’t here now, and Freddy was more or less used to the gesture, and almost found it endearing, in a strange way. “How do you figure?” 

“Well, think about it right,” Freddy tapped the spine of _Hamlet_ spread across his knees. “Hamlet is in love with Ophelia. But because he can’t make up his mind about bloody anything, she dies.” 

“I think you’re rather missing the point of the play, old chap.” said Cecil. 

“Don’t think I am,” Freddy jutted out his chin. 

“Is there any more tea?” 

There wasn’t, but Freddy went and made more. It was the polite thing to do. There was a niggling feeling at the back of his head that what Cecil meant to ask him hadn’t anything to do with tea, but rather that Cecil wanted to ask something else he hadn’t the words for. 

“All I am saying, is that if you’re really into that marriage stuff,” Freddy said. “Maybe don’t read so much Shakespeare. It’s a bit _au contraire_.” (Freddy didn’t know French really, but he thought his pronunciation was not too terrible.) 

“I’m not into that marriage stuff,” said Cecil; repeating the sentiment exactly as Freddy had opined seemed to cost him dearly. His mouth went a funny shape and the man seemed almost bewildered by the words coming out of his mouth, “It’s only that.”

“That?” Freddy arched a brow. 

Cecil affected a shrug with one shoulder, “What else would I be doing?” 

A long pause followed from that, and Freddy found himself at a loss for words, and perhaps too, a little saddened by the narrowed prospect of Cecil’s worldview save his seemingly misaligned devotion to the Bard. By his own admission, one afternoon prior when Freddy had queried about the provenance of Cecil’s imported suit, Cecil had revealed that he hadn’t gone to Italy to get it especially measured. He had only gone to the sartor here in town and then the coat had appeared on this doorstep as if summoned by way of something magic. Cecil had even shown Freddy the label sewn in the lining of his coat: _fatto in Italia_.

“Say, Cecil,” said Freddy; his mother was insistent that Cecil be addressed as “Mr. Vyse” around the house, but it was not as if his mother was present to mind Freddy’s manners for him now. Freddy was keen to make as much use out of Mrs. Honeychurch’s absence as it was possible. “Do you ever play tennis?” 

Cecil looked put out at the very suggestion, and Freddy, just from that one look, rather knew that Cecil wasn’t going to marry Lucy. Short of Lucy enthusiastically saying yes, which was about as likely as a swarm of hornets suddenly disrupting their tea. 

Cecil said, “I dislike sport.” That sentence ended bluntly, as if the man wanted it to be the end of things. 

“Well, that won’t do, will it? If you won’t heed the warnings of Mr. Shakespeare, then you might at least try your hand at tennis.” 

Cecil looked away from him and stared with great intensity at his tea, as if it held answers yet to be divined. Finally, he sighed, “Will you read _Othello_?” 

Freddy sighed too, “Depends. Who dies?” 

**Playing Tennis With Cecil**

The answer was: nearly everybody. 

As expected, Freddy remained unimpressed by _Othello_ , namely, the play’s renewed dedication towards tragically ending any chance at matrimonial happiness. He was even less impressed by the sight of Cecil Vyse in tennis shorts, although Freddy supposed the man had at least gone out of his way to acquire tennis whites and that was something. 

The urge to _laugh_ at the absurdity of it all, was not so far away from Freddy’s person. But every time he started to partake in that urge, Cecil did something _earnest_ , mostly to do with his forehand, which was terrible, and so Freddy couldn’t, again. It belatedly occurred to Freddy that Cecil really did truly and well mean to try, like the Bard who appeared to have not succeeded in anything but tragedy. 

But an hour into trying to fix his forehand, Cecil threw his racquet upon the ground and flopped down beside it. 

Freddy laid down next to him and touched his elbow. The touch seemed to gall Cecil after a fashion but then he stayed very still. 

“Don’t suppose you want some tea?” Freddy said.

“It’s _hopeless_ , isn’t it, Freddy?” 

“Where’s your sense of spirit, Mr. Vyse? I’m sure even the Bard managed happiness, once.” He didn’t think so, not really but he was sure that it was Shakespeare who had once uttered the words “all the world’s a stage, with the players coming and going.” Maybe Cecil just needed a new part, and that was all. One that was closer to his talents. 

**Lucy’s Return**

Lucy returned from Florence with a guilty secret imprinted on her person. 

It wasn’t on her face, but it was in her Beethoven. Her Tempest, _Allegretto Grazioso_ wasn’t as much graceful as it was on _fire_. For a moment, upon hearing the ending chords, Freddy thought to himself that Lucy had found another part of herself in Florence, perhaps be dredging from the view of the Arno every day from the window of her pensione. 

“I didn’t have a view, at least, not for a little while,” Lucy said, with her face a bit pink. (But _why_?) 

At first, Freddy couldn’t tell what it was, but then he realized that the secret had a name. And a face -- a rather handsome Grecian affair with a Lordish air and blond hair slicked according to the latest fashions that his mother opined was rather, well, Mrs. Honeychurch didn’t know what the word was really, but it was vogue, forward-thinking and therefore certainly _unfashionable_. 

The secret’s name was George Emerson, and he played a good game of tennis. He was even markedly better than Freddy, who fancied himself pretty good. Lucy brought them freshly squeezed lemonade in a glass decanter and cheered especially hard when George managed a point against her brother. 

George had come by for tennis a couple of times and for reasons that were yet unclear to Freddy, George and Lucy always seemed keen to involve Freddy in whatever they happened to be doing. Even when it was _clearly_ a duo sort of activity; such as if they were playing chess, or if George had a book while Lucy was banging away at her Beethoven, even if she no longer played the Tempest. She played Sonatas now in a secure Major key. Her interpretations were marchlike and forward looking. 

“I hope you haven’t forgotten forgotten our appointment, Miss Honeychurch,” said Cecil, sounding too entirely _himself_. He was wearing his silly coat that turned George’s face into something nearly unfriendly and _strange_. And then as if he’d suddenly remembered Freddy was there too, Cecil added, “Hello, Freddy.” 

Freddy was almost sure he had a “hello” buried on his person somewhere. After all, a hello was quintessentially English, _polite_ , even. Yet no such gesture came to his tongue and Freddy felt a fresh shame that made him feel boyish and even a little foolish. Far far away from the “hot and wild youth!” so treasured by the Bard. 

And yet Lucy too, was the picture of the exact opposite of such a picture, for she dusted off the grass clinging to the folds of her billowing summer dress and said a bit morosely, with even a geriatric sigh, “I remember.” 

George was sitting on the grass, picking at a button on his sleeve, looking every bit the Adonis he was. The sun shone over George’s head, making his blond head seem even more angelic than it already was, in stark, perhaps even reproachful to Cecil’s dark Gothic manners, somehow heavy and unsuited for such a warm bright day. 

**George’s Novel Gesture**

Although part of Freddy thought neither Cecil nor Lucy wanted to go on that walk, he kept that to himself. After they’d left, he glanced towards George, who was looking at him in turn. 

“He asked my permission to marry her, you know.” 

George shrugged at this, “And? What did you say?” 

“She doesn’t want to say yes, either. So I didn’t.” Freddy rolled his shoulders too, “Besides, Cecil doesn’t play tennis. Or like Beethoven. Lu would die of boredom.” 

“So what does the old fox like doing?” 

“Cecil is not that old,” Freddy said. 

George was looking at him again and Freddy rubbed at his mouth, “He likes reading Shakespeare. Makes me do it too. Nobody who’s married according to the Bard has a grand old time.” 

“Probably because the Bard doesn’t play tennis,” George agreed. 

“Don’t make fun,” Freddy bit his lip. 

“For what it’s worth, I think you and Mr. Vyse both miss the point of _Hamlet_. The real tragedy is, well, Hamlet and Horatio not speaking more, surely.” 

“Whatever is _that_ supposed to mean?” 

"Nothing, I suppose," said George mysteriously in the way Freddy disliked. It suddenly reminded him on the way he sometimes disliked that Cecil Vyse was ardent in insisting that Shakespeare wrote one thing and meant one thing only. "Except that maybe you shouldn't be afraid of tremendous things."

 

In retrospect, allowing George to dictate Freddy’s afternoon plans was a lapse of judgment. The water was cold and Freddy was nearly certain that George meant this to happen _on purpose_ , and he’d never seen Cecil so red in the face. 

“Oh _George,_ ,” said Lucy, a very pretty pink. 

All in all, Freddy decided he’d rather be reading Shakespeare with a nice cup of a tea.

**Freddy’s Decision**

On a sunny August day, Freddy put on his best linen suit and wandered down to Cecil’s house, which was not too far from Windy Corner. He caught the man coming out the door with his hat in hand. 

“Freddy,” said Cecil, entirely in the voice of one who wasn’t expecting company. 

“Erm,” Freddy picked at his collar. “Hullo.” 

“Hello,” said Cecil. 

They stared at each other, except that this was much more civilized than the last time than they had cause to stare at each other, when Freddy had been in his shorts and his nipples were red and then the redness had connected them. Except the redness on Cecil’s person had been, thankfully, fully in bloom on his cheeks and not anywhere else. At least, not that Freddy could see. 

_Something tremendous had happened_ , that was George, somewhere, at the back of his Freddy’s head; somehow both misplaced and entirely necessary, _you have to move forward. Look it in the eye. Even if you don’t know what it is, yet._

“Well,” Freddy started. At the same time, Cecil said, “I say.” 

“You first.” 

“No, no,” Cecil gestured broadly. “After you, dear boy, I insist.” 

Freddy worried at his bottom lip until he remembered how to breathe, how to let air into his lungs. “Don’t suppose you’d want to go for a walk, Mr. Vyse.” He held out his hand and Cecil took it. Cecil’s hands, when one wasn’t paying any mind, one could easily think that Cecil’s fingers and unformed by any talent and nearly ladylike. Freddy rather thought he knew differently, now. 

“I think that sounds like a tremendous idea, Freddy.”


End file.
